Part 5

The amusements and distractions of Scarborough? If one hunts or shoots there is plenty of sport. Several packs of hounds meet on the downs near by, and although the country is a bit stiff, the going is fairly decent. It may perhaps be considered a drawback that hounds occasionally disappear over the cliffs in the ardour of the chase, and that a too-eager hunter might easily do the same--with his rider on his back; but most men who hunt here say that they enjoy the spice of danger.

Scarborough has two features distinctively its own: its "Spa" and its cabs. Just why the long promenade where the band plays should be called the "Spa" no one knows, but the fact remains, and every Sunday all the world and his wife walk there for "Church Parade." The Scarborough cab is really a small Victoria, drawn by one horse, ridden by a correctly-got-up tiger, who lends a picturesque air to the trap. They go well, these small horses, and gallop up and down the long hills on which Scarborough is built, with greatest ease. The "day tripper," with his 'Arriet, is unknown here, for the simple reason that there would be nothing for him to do.

There are no stands in the streets to display "s'rimps," "whilks" and other questionable marine delicacies, put up in brown paper bags at "tuppence the quart"; no merry-go-rounds; no cheap photographic studios; or one-horse circuses where the manager is clown, acrobat and owner in one, to tempt the taste and gratify the curiosity of the lower classes. And there are no Americans in Scarborough. It is too far from Paris, and too quiet for the extraordinary specimens of nasal tendencies, who make an annual descent upon the Continent and swarm from Dan to Beersheba. One never meets them at home, these painfully rich and newly varnished Yankees who travel through Great Britain in great state and pomp, and whose breeding is shamed by that of the scullery maid in the cosy little inns they so disdain. It is really trying to see the impression most Englishmen have of Americans--impressions gathered simply from these inflictions who, knowing no one but the green-grocer on their corner at home, come abroad to astonish the natives; and who succeed in doing nothing but in making the appellation of American to stink in the nostrils of the foreigner.

Of course there are ruins near Scarborough, and again of course the favourite drive is to these ruins. Another excursion is to a hill overlooking the town, where tradition says that unsavoury individual yclept Oliver Cromwell, once stood, or sat or performed some other operation equally important.

Politically, as becomes its staid and exclusive _clientèle_, Scarborough is Conservative; and has no sympathy with an old man's visionary plans to break up a great Empire. Irish agitators appear occasionally but not often, and they rarely carry away a full purse from the collections they invariably take up.

Descriptions of places are invariably tiresome. One place is usually like another, and the best way to know a town or city is to go there; but anyone who can picture a town built up on the cliffs and down in the hollows between, with stretches of sandy beach in front, will have a fair idea of the Bournemouth of the north. The country round about Scarborough is attractive. Quaint villages quite out of the world like Symsbury, are met with at every turn; small market towns, like Yarm, where the old custom of engaging servants by the "hold fast" in the market-place on the yearly appointed day still obtains; and small seaside resorts, like Redcar and Coatbridge; with Whitby famous for its jet; all these are worth a visit. Yorkshire men are canny, and good at a bargain and no better judges of horseflesh are found anywhere. The only drawback connected with Scarborough is its distance from London, but that is really only a drawback to Londoners. The Scarborough man is rather proud of the fact. He looks with pity upon the benighted south of England man, and has no words to express his contempt for the finnicky foreigner, who comes to Scarborough and drinks sour red wine, instead of quaffing huge draughts of the glorious old Yorkshire ale.

CLIMBING IN LAKELAND.

ROSTHWAITE, NEAR KESWICK.--A couple of days since I started off with a barrister friend to do a days' climb in the Lake country. He promised me a good view from the top of Scafell Pike, but a rough time in getting there; and took an almost pathetic interest in my boots and "shorts," hinting darkly that certain mysterious "screes," over which the path lay, would test their strength and durability to the utmost. We travelled third class, of course, for my friend would have thought me insane to propose anything else; and, really, we were very comfortable, as all the seats were cushioned. He wore the regulation British walking costume: stout, heavy, hob-nail boots, thick woolen stockings, and loose and impossibly wide knickerbockers; while a blue serge jacket and a peaked cloth cap clothed his upper man. Of course, his short briar-wood pipe was to the fore, and on the whole, he looked comfortable. My own get-up was more ordinary, as I had started at half an hour's notice.

We rushed into Darlington station before long--an immense glass-covered structure, with platforms half a mile long--and there changed for Penrith and Keswick. We began to ascend soon after leaving Darlington, passing by Barnard Castle, the "beauty spot of Yorkshire"--the tracks lying over breezy moorlands. We changed at Penrith, a dreary junction, and reached Keswick about seven o'clock in a mist of half-twilight that was very kind to the distant mountains, making them appear much bigger and grander than they were ever meant to be. Fortunately, we found the Borrowdale coach still running, and as it would take us within two miles of our destination, we were well pleased. Before it started we had time to attend a very lively meeting of the Salvation Army in the Keswick market-place, where the tall, thin man who dealt out freely sundry dismal prophecies, betrayed painful need of a bronchial trochee.

The drive on the box seat of the four-in-hand was glorious. The moon came out as we reached the edge of Derwentwater and threw her soft light full on the lonely lake; and, what was of more importance, on the broad road ahead of us. The horses were fresh and the road inclining to a descent, so we rolled gaily on past the Lodore Hotel, hard-by the famous falls, until, too soon, we stopped before the Borrowdale Inn. Then, with a cheery good-night from the coachman, we started to walk the remaining two miles, our appetites forcibly reminding us that we had eaten nothing since early morning; and with a cheery feeling of expectancy for the comforts of the inn presided over by the famous Mrs. Rigg. The lights of the little hamlet of Rosthwaite soon appeared and we halted at a long, low, straggling house, buried in vines. A tall, stout lady stood in the doorway and proved herself to be _the_ Mrs. Rigg by the way in which she bustled about in all directions, calling several buxom country lasses to her aid. She sent two of them to prepare our much-wanted supper, while she herself piloted us to our quaint, low-ceilinged bed-rooms, where every bed had curtains. Now, Mrs. Rigg is a widow, and has been ever since the memory of man, and concerning the original Mr. Rigg nothing is known; but, whoever he was, people take more interest in the fact that his wife knows how to keep a good homely inn, called by Mrs. Rigg herself the "Royal Oak," but known to all the neighbourhood as "Mrs. Rigg's." Mrs. R. herself is a tall, stout old lady with a false front and an imposing cap, and when she sits in the little bar parlour behind the steaming tea kettle, reading the _Family Herald_, she presents a picture of comfort not easily surpassed. Mrs. Rigg is suspected of a leaning toward the village painter, to the regret of all concerned, and dismal are the forebodings of the aforesaid country lassies should she yield herself (and her inn) to his fascinations. We enjoyed our supper--huge chops served with mealy potatoes and foaming tankards of "bitter"--and then in the cozy smoke room (why never smoking room in England?), we proceeded to lay out the route for the next day. Our intention in coming to Rosthwaite had been to climb Scafell Pike and, possibly Glaramara; so we confidently looked forward to a fine day. But, oh, the despair when we woke up next morning, for the rain was coming down in a steady drizzle and the mist was floating gently over and about all the mountain tops within view. We met with rueful faces in the coffee room, for now Scafell was quite out of the question as well as Glaramara; for, of course, no view could be had on such a day, and the idea of wandering along the edge of precipices in the mist was hardly tempting.

But an inspiration came to us. It was unanimously voted a pity to waste that day, as we should be obliged to return on the next; so, after much poring over maps and guides, we decided to go as far up Scafell as possible and then, making a circuit, to return by Sty Head Pass. This sounded easy and I began to congratulate myself--rather previously, as it afterward turned out--upon the probability of getting back in time for dinner at six. We had scraped acquaintance with an "undergrad" from Oxford--Wadham College--and we invited him to go with us. We hurried over breakfast, taking care, fortunately, to eat a hearty one; and then, with a rueful look at the cozy, firelit room we were leaving, tramped out into the rain about ten o'clock. We knew we should get wet through, so we took no overcoats and simply buttoned our jackets tight about our necks to keep our flannel shirts dry as long as possible.

The road was very good for some distance, being the coach road to Buttermere, so we went gaily on. About two miles from Rosthwaite we reached the queerly-named little village of Seatollar (which our Wadham friend insisted on referring to as "Tolloller"), where we turned off into a rustic road overgrown with grass, which for some time led us among pine groves before bringing us to the famous Borrowdale yews: a group of fine old firs upon the hillside. Here our Oxonian again would have it that the name applied to the various flocks of sheep grazing near and pointed out to us some "genuine Borrowdale ewes." It got damper and damper as we went on, but I ceased to wonder when I heard we were drawing near the "wettest place in England," the hamlet of Seathwaite, where the annual rainfall is actually one hundred and fifty-six inches! There is not much of interest in Seathwaite except its moisture and the fact that it has no public house, as Sir Wilfred Lawson the great temperance advocate owns all the freehold.

Here we left the road and struck up the side of the valley, having Glaramara and Great Gable in front of us, two big mountains covered with clouds; while Talyors-Gill poured its rushing, thread-like stream down the hillside opposite. Here we first began to walk on grass, and grass that had been rained on for the last hundred years without intermission, judging from its appearance. But we said little and pushed on by the side of the beck for some time, until it became necessary to go straight up the mountain by the sheep track, which was marked only by an occasional cairn or small heap of stones. It was hard work to climb over slippery rocks almost perpendicular; but we persevered and surmounted the hill, only to find ourselves struggling in a green bog at the top. The rain now came down harder than ever and as the Oxford man began to whistle "Wot Ch'er?" we felt gloomy. We pushed on in single file, each one dripping as he walked, the sound of the water swashing about inside our boots being painfully evident. We went on like this for some time. My friend suddenly broke into a shout, "Here we are, boys, thank goodness, this is Eske Hause." "Oh, then we are half way up Scafell," said the Oxonian--"hang the mist!"

This last observation was timely, for a thick Scotch mist had now shut in upon the small plateau known as Eske Hause, where we stood, but as to the derivation of that name deponent sayeth not. We stopped here for a few minutes while our Oxonian produced a guide map, and with the water pouring down from the peak of his cap, proceeded to mark out our path. The rest of us wrung ourselves out and paid as much attention as we could.

"We must go down by Sprinkling Tarn (good name, that) and then by Sty Head Tarn until we get to the Pass. Now, shall we lunch up here or down by the tarn?" We decided to postpone luncheon until we reached a lower and presumably warmer level, and we eagerly proceeded to make the descent. The path, or track, was steep and stony and the stones were slippery. I will draw a veil over that descent, but when we got down by Sprinkling Tarn (a small, lonely bit of water) we felt like being put through a wringer. We hurried on, not noticing that the path had merged itself imperceptibly in the surrounding turf, until our Wadham friend exclaimed: "Oh, I say, you know, this can't be right. It's quite time we were at that confounded tarn and I haven't seen a cairn this half hour." It was too true. We were off the track. There was mist all about us and the keen rain was chilling us through and through. We searched for the path in vain, until we were entirely discouraged, when some one suggested that it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a bite; so we stood about in a dripping group as we got out our sandwiches and flasks. We were wet and chilled, and I doubt if Sir Wilfred himself would have objected to a taste of Scotch whisky under the circumstances. But the sandwiches! Oh, Mrs. Rigg, Mrs. Rigg, how we blessed you, there, on the steep side of Scafell as we found that the ham of which they were exclusively composed had "gone bad!" We said little, but we thought hard just then.

After that we went sadly and silently on. Soon we found we were going down instead of up, which we knew to be wrong, as Sty Head Pass was above us. And now the thunders of a torrent swollen by recent rains began to be heard, and presently we came in sight of a tumbling mass of water hurrying along the bottom of the valley. We stood aghast, for this we knew must be Lingmell Beck, and the valley the one leading to Wastwater, miles away from the Pass. Night was closing in and the mist was nothing lighter, while it was really hard to carry the wet and dripping mass our clothes had become. We wandered up and down this valley for some time in bewilderment, not finding any trace of a path. But at last my friend, who had been carefully examining the mountain side, cried but: "Look, boys, there's the Pass, way above us! We must push straight up if we ever want to get back to-night."

We looked doubtfully at the thin black line that might be the Pass, and which seemed miles above us, and then, with one determined look, set our teeth and went up the mountain. I say went, for we didn't walk, although we used every other means of progression, for we crawled and crept and stumbled along, sometimes on our hands and knees, frequently sliding back with great agility. I never experienced such a climb anywhere, even in Greece among the wild Theban mountains; for, dripping wet, with our clammy clothes clinging to us, we went a solid mile up that hill before we found the Sty Head Pass. That, although rough, was child's play compared with what we had come through, and when we reached the small cairn that marks the highest part of the Pass, we shuddered as we looked down the almost perpendicular mountain and wondered how on earth we ever came up.

From the top of the Pass it was a fairly easy walk to Rosthwaite by Sty Head Tarn, which, owing to the encircling mist, looked like an immense ocean.

Mrs. Rigg was at the door when we got down and looked so cheerful and glad to see us that we forgot to mention that ham. But we haven't got the damp of that walk out of ourselves yet; and it is doubtful if anything but the warm Italian sun is capable of removing the general mildew that enshrouds us.

WINDERMERE.

AMBLESIDE.--The chief peculiarity of the Lake country is the ever-present dampness. But once used to this one begins to enter into its peace and quiet. A month here away from the world would be, to a tired and overworked man, better than all "cures" or sanitoriums, for the damp is not the city pest, but that peculiar kind of moisture which makes the hard, smooth turf as green as an emerald and gives to the temporary visitor an appetite wolfish in its intensity.

Ambleside is five miles from Windermere village (the nearest station) and is reached by four-horse drags running three times a day. The road is as smooth as a billiard table, the horses always fresh, and on the day it doesn't rain, a drive to Ambleside by the Lake is a thing to be remembered.

Ambleside is a village of a few thousand inhabitants and primitive, to a certain degree. The Post Office, for instance, is in a stationer's shop and the drapers' and tailors' establishments are one. Ambleside is nestled at the foot of Wansfell Pike and is built on the side of a hill, consequently the streets are steep. There is but one street really, and the chemist, the butcher and the inevitable relic shop are to be found in it. The village is honeycombed with lodgings and there are many inns, for it is a great centre for excursions. The immediate neighbourhood is rich in attractions. Stock-Ghyll Force is but a short distance off--through the stable yard of the "Salutation Inn," and although a turn-stile with the sign "No Admission" appears, one may enter boldly without paying. The waterfall is not high but is wonderfully picturesque as it falls down the moss-covered rocks and dashes away through a deep ravine. The Stock-Ghyll is a favorite resort for newly-married couples and is certainly romantic enough for the purpose. Then there is a charming walk to Rydal--Wordsworth's village--by the banks of the Rothay, past Fox-How, where the noble Arnold of Rugby, beloved by all readers of "Tom Brown's School Days," lived; and Fox-Ghyll, the residence of the late Mr. Foster. Fox-How is an ideally perfect place, situate on the side of a hill, with a smooth green expanse of lawn in front, and buried in rose vines and honeysuckles. It is a low stone building with old-fashioned windows and has a cheery, hospitable look. The name is curious and a frequent one in the lake country. It comes, I believe, from the old Norwegian word "hague" (a sepulchral mound). Dr. Arnold named the three roads between Rydal and Grassmere. The highest he called Corruption Road, the middle Bit-by-Bit Reform (now called Bitbit Road), and the most level, Radical Reform. A little further on is Rydal Mount, Wordsworth's home, a charming old place, cushioned in trees. There the road goes on by Rydal Water, a small lake almost covered with rushes, and then through a gap in the mountain to Grassmere. This is all haunted ground, for Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge and De Quincy all walked and mused by the side of these lakes and on these hills, and one hardly wonders that they were inspired by the lovely scenery. Then, in another direction, one may walk from Ambleside to the quaint little village of Clappersgate, which is made up entirely of low grey stone cottages covered with vines and roses. The resources of Ambleside in providing day excursions for its visitors are really unbounded, and one of the pleasantest of these is to walk down to Waterhead, at the end of Windermere, and take passage on one of the small steamers that run several times a day. As the small vessel starts out from the pier one gets a splendid view of the mountains at the back of Ambleside, and the little village looks like a cluster of one or two houses in a vast amphitheatre. Then we turn around a wooded point and stop for a minute at Low-wood, the big hotel on the border of the lake, and then go on past hills and valleys and flocks of sheep to Bowness, passing two or three small islands, one of which, Holm Crag, is a favorite resort of birds in the winter months. Then we dart over the lake to the little island of Ferry, and then go straight on past a bewildering number of bays and islets to Lakeside at the foot of the lake where the railway station of the Midland line gives access to Ulverston and the iron country of Furness.

Windermere is almost equal to Lake Geneva, and although it has become the fashion to cry down the English lakes, it is a fact that more enjoyment at an extremely moderate outlay may be obtained in the small belt of country that contains them, than in Switzerland, overrun as it is by the cockneys and _parvenues_ of every nation. I know of hardly any greater treat to a person of any artistic appreciation than that trip up and down Windermere on a clear day. Then the drives from Ambleside are charming. One may drive to Grassmere by Red Bank, a steep hill overlooking that lake and Rydal Water, and also to Hawkshead, where a very curious old church demands attention; and to High Wray, where there is an inn rejoicing in the name of "The Dun Cow." A hill outside High Wray commands a splendid view of the hills behind and about Ambleside: Loughrigg Fell, Wansfell Pike, Nab-Scar, Crinkle Crags, Coniston-Old-Man and Great Gable. On a clear day one may also see Helvellyn. The road passes Wray Castle, a modern house built to imitate perfectly a mediæval fortress. The owner is a retired M. D. of Liverpool. Another delightful drive is to Langdale Pikes and to Megeon Ghyll, a lovely waterfall rather bigger than most of the cascades in Lakeland.

On this drive one may have a capital view of Red Screes, another of the high mountains. Curious names are met with all through Westmoreland. For instance, three peaks not far from here are called Harrison Stickle, Pike O'Stickle and Pike O'Blisco.

There are many curious customs still extant in and about Ambleside. Christmas is celebrated in the old hospitable way. At that time the farmer and his family are away at other houses night after night and one must look for them anywhere but at home. At Christmas every Cumberland and Westmoreland farmer gives two banquets, one called "t'auld foak's neet" and the other, "t'young foak's neet;" the first of which is for those who are married and the second for those who are single. The tables groan under old-fashioned dainties: raised and mince pies, goose, caudle cup, "guid strang yell," as they call the home-brewed October, and a huge bowl of punch. Intoxication never happens at these Cumberland feasts.

Among others, Mrs. Hemans once had a cottage on Windermere called "Dove's Nest," and wrote some verses on the scenery, which are well known; but she can hardly be ranked with the school of "Lake Poets."

There is a queer old rhyme current in the district, in itself a significant comment on the weather of the country:

"When Wansfell wears a cap of cloud The roar of Brathay will be loud; When mists come down on Loughrigg Fell, A drenching day we all foretell; When Red Screes frown on Ambleside, The rain will pour both far and wide. When Wansfell smiles and Loughrigg's bright, 'Twill surely rain before the night; If breezes blow from Bowness Bay, 'Tis certain to be wet all day; And if they blow from Grassmere Lake, You'd better an umbrella take. But if no rain should fall all day From Ambleside to Morecambe Bay, Upon that morning you will see Fishes and eels in every tree; When in the nets on Windermere Twelve pickled salmon shall appear, No rain shall fall upon that day And men may safely make their hay."

SANDRINGHAM HOUSE.